The Black Ribboned Rose
by ZeGabz
Summary: A tormented and deformed man must learn to love and be loved by another, or a powerful spell placed upon him will never be broken. Can music bring together two kindred spirits when looks might tear them apart? Beauty and the Beast-based, musicalverse
1. Prologue

**A/N: I know, I know, so completely UNORIGINAL, but my last day of class is on Wednesday, so I wanted to tackle a big project. This is going to be based off of Disney's plot, but it will be darker and have several changes made for the sake of staying true to the spirit of Phantom. It's going to be a challenge writing for Erik, with all of his complexities, but I'm looking forward to the task. I hope this is a suitable entry into the "phandom". Just to make this clear: this isn't my first fanfic, just my first Phantom fanfic. Just so you know, introductions in italics are taken from lyrics from the musicals, I own nothing. Which leads me to . . .**

**DISCLAIMER: I am NOT Andrew Lloyd Webber. I do NOT write sequels with catchy music and amazing performers but disappointing plots, and I do NOT own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, nor do I own Beauty and the Beast. With that said, enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_Once upon a time, in a city called Paris, France,_

_A young musician lived in a magnificent opera house._

_Although he had everything his heart desired,_

_The musician was easily angered, selfish, and unkind._

_But then, one winter's night,_

_An old beggar woman came to the Opera House he called his own,_

_And offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold._

_Repulsed by her haggard appearance,_

_The musician sneered at the gift,_

_And turned the old woman away._

_But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances,_

_For Beauty is found within._

_And when he dismissed her again._

_The old woman's ugliness melted away_

_To reveal a beautiful Enchantress._

_The musician tried to apologize, but it was too late,_

_For she had seen that there was no love in his heart or music._

_And as punishment,_

_She transformed him into a deformed monster,_

_And placed a powerful spell on the Opera House,_

_And all who lived and worked there._

_Ashamed of his monstrous face,_

_The musician concealed himself inside his castle,_

_With a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world._

_The Rose she had offered,_

_Was truly an enchanted rose,_

_Which would bloom for many years._

_If he could learn to love another,_

_And earn her love in return_

_By the time the last petal fell,_

_Then the spell would be broken._

_If not, he would be doomed to remain deformed_

_For all time._

_As the years passed,_

_He fell into despair, and lost all hope,_

_For who could ever learn to love...a monster? _

***Paris, France, November, 1881***

"Ah, little Christine Daaé, her head always in the clouds."

"Not in the clouds, monsieur, but in her music!"

Christine strolled down the small cobblestone street, pretending she hadn't heard all of the small comments the people of Paris would make as she made her usual trip through the city, collecting food for her father and herself, and also searching for new librettos to study, new music to attempt to learn.

For Christine, music was life. She loved to sing, and had always longed to be formally taught, but she and her father lived alone and could not afford lessons. Her father attempted to instruct her himself, as he was a violinist, but he was only able to teach her so much. But what she had learned was quite valuable to her.

And that, unfortunately, made her appear rather odd to her neighbors, who, though they appreciated music, thought that she was far too much of a dreamer, with her mind constantly away in some romantic opera or humming to herself as she walked through town.

She much preferred the worlds in the opera librettos and books she would read to the world she lived in. The men and women she knew had no more dreams, they only focused on trivial matters. Her mind drifted far away, as she dreamed of performing to sold-out audiences around the world, but truly all that she wanted was to sing in the place that haunted her dreams and thoughts . . .

She stopped at the old Paris Opera House, now empty and desolated. Christine had heard many different stories to explain its sudden closure many years ago, some said the owner had been killed by someone against music, some said La Carlotta, the former principal soprano there had killed the owner for not giving her a solo, and then ran off, for she had gone missing as well. Christine, on the other hand, had her own idea to why it closed. She believed the owner had lost inspiration, and his love for music.

She looked through a crack in the wood that boarded up the windows, hoping to steal a glance at the place she had forever longed to perform at, even though she had never set foot in it. She peered in, and her eyes met nothing but a very still darkness.

She was in the midst of turning away and returning home to help her father prepare supper, when she heard the faintest sound coming from deep within the grand building. Slowly, she turned back and pressed her ear against the wood, straining to make sense of the noise.

Slowly, as she focused in on the noise, it grew louder and clearer.

It was music.

The melody grew clearer, the notes gaining momentum as the song continued, and Christine closed her eyes, losing herself in the rich harmonies coming from what sounded like an organ. The music . . . it was haunting, and so chillingly beautiful that Christine stood with her ear pressed against the boarded window for many moments, drawing glances from harmless passersby. But she didn't notice, her mind and soul was lost in the dark, tormented melodies drifting from deep within the dark opera house . . .

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><p><strong>AN: I know, I know, short prologue, but the chapters will be longer than this once the actual plot kicks in, I swear. It's just a prologue, after all.**

**Please review, I'm really trying hard to grasp these characters. And I haven't even tackled the real challenge yet . . .**


	2. Chapter One, The Lair

**A/N: Well, it appears I have gotten a review from Erik himself, eh? Extremely awesome, and props to the Angel of Music who did that, very slick. Made my day.**

**Answer to 382jollytumgirl, I actually sort of picture John Owen Jones as the Phantom, and Sierra Boggess as Christine when I write. So you can guess my delight at seeing the Olivier Awards on Youtube . . . So yeah. Sorry, no Gerry here. But if it makes you feel better you can pretend it's him. Kay? ;)**

**Next point, to be clear, this is musical-based, but does have a few details from the movie. And one more thing, there is some French, if it really matters to you, use a translator. Especially near the end.  
><strong>

**Big thanks to everyone who reviewed, you are all amazing. So, enough rambling, let's get this show on the road! (*bad pun*)**

**P.S. . . Take a wild guess at who our Gaston will be. I dare you.**

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><p>Chapter One, The Lair<p>

Raoul DeChangy was truly a catch. He was handsome, smart, handsome, rich, and above all- handsome. And he had his eyes set on one lovely _belle_ in particular.

Christine Daaé.

He had been strolling through the park one day when his ear had been caught by the most beautiful sound . . . singing? He had turned and peered through several bushes to find a beautiful young woman, her red-brown curls blowing in the gentle breeze. She wore a white laced dress that clung to her slender frame, accentuating her small curves, and over it a bright red cloak.

But her voice, her voice was almost as enchanting as her looks. She sang something that he didn't care about, and he stared at her lips.

At that moment, he had decided she would be his.

He had known her when they were children, but had never thought anything of her until now . . . puberty was now his very best friend.

Now he was walking behind her as they passed the old abandoned Opera House, and he chuckled fondly as she stopped to peek inside of it. Such an odd girl she was, but he would take care of that . . .

Wait, now what was she doing? Was she . . . why was her ear pressed against the wood? He stood and watched as she closed herself and a slow smile spread across her face. Okay, that was enough. He couldn't have other people talking about his wife-to-be.

"Christine!" Christine jumped, as if broken from a trance. She looked over at him and smiled.

"Bonjour, Raoul." As if to dismiss him, she pulled out her book of music, entitled _Patience_. Oh, so she wanted to play hard to get? Two could play at that game. He pulled her music out of her hands, ignoring her annoyed remark.

"Christine, _bébé_, you really must get your head out of your little songbooks and pay attention to more important things."

"Like . . . ?" she asked, crossing her arms before making another lunge for her music.

"Like me!" he said in his most manly voice, tossing her music over his back. He smiled as he heard a small splash. Even without aiming, his aim was perfect. Christine sighed.

"No offense, Raoul, but I'll just grab my music and get home. My father will be missing me."

"Christine, it's not right for a woman to read or get all caught up in her music! Before long, they start to think . . ."

"Raoul!"

"And you know how low-class singers and actors are. Don't undermine yourself." Christine bent down, picked up her book, shook off the water (getting him wet in the process), and walked off.

"Au revoir, Raoul."

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><p>Gustave Daaé stood at the window of his home, playing his violin to the tune of his daughter's favorite lullaby, hoping she would hear the sweet music and return home. She had been out in the city for a long time today, and he was beginning to worry. Christine never ran late, like him, she was very keen on keeping to their daily routine.<p>

A woman, his neighbor, sat at her window, knitting something. Her eyes were half-closed as she listened to the sweet tunes of the lullaby.

_At least someone appreciates my music_, Gustave thought sullenly. Perhaps that was the consequence of his music. Most musicians in Paris were unemployed, and all because of the Opera House. Without it, the best jobs these talented artists could manage to get were at weddings and restaurants.

A smile appeared on his face as a small red form came into view. Christine was rushing through the cold night air, looking slightly annoyed, and when she was within earshot, a lovely smile appeared on her face and her arm went up in the air to wave at him, indicating she had heard him. He smiled and ceased playing, setting his precious violin in its case and walking to the door to open it for his angel.

He opened it to see Christine grinning brightly. "_Bonjour_, Father. Thank you for the music."

He smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, _amoureux_." He frowned slightly. "Why were you out for so long?" Christine's smile faltered slightly, and she sat down on the couch.

"Oh father, it was so odd!" Gustave frowned. Heaven help him if she was talking about feelings, or, more specifically, a certain feeling . . .

"What was odd?" he choked out. Christine went on, not acknowledging his tone.

"I was walking by the old Opera House, and I went to take a peek through a hole in the wood-"

"Christine, you could have gotten a splinter!" Gustave scolded. She dignified his comment with a smile in his direction.

" -and then I heard it." She stopped and grinned mischievously. Gustave raised an eyebrow, playing along with her little game.

"Heard what, exactly?" She leaned over to him, as if her next words were a delicious secret.

"Music."

"Music?"

"Yes!" Her eyes sparkled, but they seemed to hold something back.

"You heard music . . ."

"Yes, Father."

"From the Opera House?"

"As if it were coming from deep within it! And oh, Father, the music was the most beautiful and sad thing I had ever heard!"

"What instrument was it?"

"I think it was an organ. It may have been a piano. But I am fairly certain it was an organ." Gustave leaned back, deep in thought.

"Are you sure, _mon cherie_, that you weren't imagining the music?" Christine shook her head swiftly.

"No, no, Father, I am very sure. And it was so beautiful-"

"Christine, you've said that already." She giggled.

"I know, Father, but it was just so lovely . . ." Her eyes grew distant as she reminisced. Gustave watched her curiously.

"You looked bothered when you came home. What happened?" Christine's smile disappeared.

"A . . . man had been pestering me." Gustave grew angry.

"Who is the man?"

"No, no, not like that. I suppose he had been trying to court me." He raised his eyebrows.

"Who?"

"Raoul." Gustave smiled.

"Raoul? He's a handsome fellow . . ."

"Yes, he is certainly handsome. And conceited, and bothersome, and . . . oh, Father, he's not for me."

"I thought you were friends."

"When we were ten, maybe, but he's different now." She sighed. "I must confess, I can't stop thinking about that song . . . ." Gustave thought hard for a moment.

"Christine . . . can you handle yourself tomorrow without me?" he asked suddenly. His daughter glanced at him, broken from her daydream. She frowned.

"Where are you going?" He ruminated quickly.

"I have business to take care of, that's all. Will you be alright alone?" He mused. "I should be home in time for supper." Christine still looked slightly confused, but she nodded.

"I'll have something ready to eat when you get home." Gustave smiled.

"That's _mon petit ange_." He glanced at their wall clock. "It's late, Christine. Off to bed with you!"

Christine smiled fondly. "I'm no longer a child, father, please." She yawned. "But you're right, it is late, and I'm tired." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "_Bonne nuit_, Father."

"Good night, _peu une_."

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><p>Christine walked to her room, that beautiful tune still whirling through her mind.<p>

_Who wrote it?_

Who could possibly be so sad, so despondent, to be able to write such music? It had been so bitter, so passionate, so angry, so full of longing for something impossible. How did they now exactly how to put words into music? How were they able to write something where you knew exactly what they were writing about? What had happened to the composer to make him or her so outlandish and depressed? What had happened?

_Who played it?_

Who was able to play that music with such accuracy, such passion? Who could possibly play all of those notes in such patterns, and still incorporate all of that feeling into the notes? But most importantly, she wondered . . .

_Why were they in the old Opera House?_

Full of questions, she sang softly to herself as she drifted off to sleep.

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><p>Gustave Daaé rode down the cold, unforgiving streets of Paris on his horse, Minuit, in search of the Opera House. He had lost his way, and now it was pitch-black, save for the soft glow of lamp-lights, and he was just back on track.<p>

Christine's testimony to the haunting music coming from the Opera House had intrigued him, and he took it upon himself to investigate. If there had indeed been someone lurking through a lost treasure of the arts, he would find out.

He turned into a dark alleyway, hoping that this was a shortcut. Christine would be expecting him, and he didn't want her to worry.

"Hey! _Vous là-bas! Sur le cheval!_"

Gustave turned. A man was staggering towards him. He appeared drunk. Not trusting the situation, Gustave turned Minuit around and began a swift trot to a more crowded and well-lit area. Another man rounded the corner.

"_Où allez-vous, mon brave homme?_" he called out. Gustave quickened the pace, growing worried. To his horror, another man, this one well-built, appeared, with something shiny hanging from his belt.

"_Ne pars pas, le plaisir ne fait que commencer!_" he called out, emitting a hearty and ominous chuckle. Gustave kicked Minuit into a gallop, when the third man pulled the object from his belt and fired a shot towards them, barely missing Minuit's leg. Minuit reared into the air, throwing Gustave to the ground, and galloped off at full speed, ignoring Gustave's calls for him.

"_Ah, maintenant, monsieur, laissez-nous commencer la partie_," the third man sneered, pointing the gun at Gustave. In a quick action, Gustave kicked at the man's legs, knocking him to the ground and the gun out of his hands into a sewer. He staggered to his feet and broke into a run, not caring where he was going.

He could feel the three men in hot pursuit, and adrenaline kicked in, propelling him towards the nearest building. He shook at the gates, and when they wouldn't budged, he crashed through them, shutting them and hiding behind a bush.

He froze as the three men arrived, looking around for him. After what seemed like an eternity, the third man's voice rang out gruffly.

"_On dirait que nous avons perdu. Venez Pierre, Remi. Trouvons un autre chapitre._" Gustave remained rooted in place until the footsteps had long disappeared. Standing uncertainly, he wandered over to the entrance, glancing up. Fiddling through his pocket, he pulled out his match and grabbed a candle from his satchel (He was a very practical man, and had planned for riding in the dark. Sadly, Minuit had run off with his saddle, which contained a lantern. The candle was a spare.) and lit it. Looking up, he suddenly gasped with recognition.

The Opera House!

What luck! He reached for the door, but found that it was locked. He knocked on it once, but nobody answered. Frowning, he pulled a pin from his pocket (one of Christine's hairpins, she must have misplaced it while folding laundry) and picked at the lock. Oh, he would be in terrible trouble if _la police_ caught him, but he had to take the risk. He had to know what his daughter knew.

The lock finally budged, and with a great heave, Gustave managed to open the door. Keeping his candle lit, he cautiously walked forward.

Something in the darkness rustled, and Gustave whirled around, his eyes wide. Gulping, he called out, "Hello?"

No reply. "Is anyone here?"

Silence.

"I don't mean to intrude, but I was almost robbed, my horse ran off, and I need a place to stay for the night . . ."

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><p><strong>AN: No worries, my dear friends, Erik is on his way, and will appear in the next chapter!**


	3. Chapter Two, The Deal

**A/N: Thanks again to all of you awesome reviewers! I am so glad I finished this before tomorrow. No more one day updates until Wednesday, sorry! I have to finish school, and as soon as that's over, I will be free to write this story! *woot woot!*  
><strong>

**So, who's ready to meet our Opera's managers? And more importantly, THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA?**

**P.S. Suggested listening for this chapter, Hannibal and Why So Silent?, and Phantom of the Opera (in that order), if you can, go on Youtube and look up JOJ and Sierra's 2011 Olivier performance!**

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><p>Chapter Two, The Deal<p>

"Hello?" Monsieur Gilles André almost fell off of the small table he was sitting on in shock and excitement.

"Keep quiet," Monsieur Richard Firmin whispered from his perch, "Maybe he'll go away." The candelabra sighed. Why must the old clock be so inhospitable? After all, the Opera House was receiving its first guest in years . . . his instincts as a manager had not dimmed in the slightest. And apparently, neither had Firmin's . . .

But then again, he remembered, they were not the only ones who remained the same on the inside. He gulped.

"Is anyone here?"

"You better not be saying one word," Firmin warned. André refrained from pointing out that Firmin was doing all of the talking.

"I don't mean to intrude, but I was almost robbed, my horse ran off, and I need a place to stay for the night . . ." Andre looked pleadingly at Firmin.

"Oh, Firmin, have a heart . . ." he half-begged, making his eyes as wide and round as he could.

"Sh!" Firmin hissed, putting his hand/handle over Andre's mouth. Blinking, Andre moved his candlestick arm and placed the flame on the handle. "OW!"

"Of course, Monsieur, you're welcome here!" he called out as Firmin continued blowing on his handle.

"Who said that?" the stranger called out, his voice growing more spooked by the second. He picked Andre up and began to wave him around.

"Over here!" Andre said patiently.

"Where?" Andre sighed and tapped him on the head, and when the stranger turned, he flashed his most charming smile.

"_Bonjour_!"

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><p>Gustave gasped and dropped the candelabra to the ground in fright, jumping back. Had that inanimate object just . . . spoken? "<em>Incroyable<em> . . ." he murmured.

"Now you've done it, Andre!" came another voice, causing Gustave to jump again, as the clock that had been resting on a small table came bounding forward. "Splendid, just pea-AH!" Gustave reached out and picked the clock up curiously, and began to examine it.

"How can this be?" he murmured softly, looking over the clock and ignoring its-or his- protests. He continued looking over the clock before _he_ jumped out of his hands. Gustave bent over to pick _him_ up before a sharp stabbing pain came to his attention from where he had fallen. "Argh," he groaned, standing straight again.

"Why, _monsieur, _you're injured!" the candelabra gasped, hopping over to him, "Oh, and you're freezing! You might catch cold! Come, follow me, and warm up by the fire." Gustave nodded gratefully as the candelabra led him to another room, which had a welcoming fire ablaze in it and an extremely old and unused chair next to it.

"No, no, no!" the clock called out indignantly, "I demand that you stop right there!" He pulled at Gustave's cape, but only ended up being pulled down the stairs into the warm and inviting room.

Gustave settled in the old chair and sighed as his worn muscles began to relax. "I am so sorry for intruding, thank you for your hospitality," he said softly. "I still can't believe you have all been in the Opera House for so long . . ."

"You know of our Opera House?"

"I used to go here at every chance when I was younger," Gustave admitted, "I am a musician myself, so-"

"A musician!" the candelabra asked delightedly, "Oh, how wonderful!" he turned to the nearby footrest, which was . . . purring? Gustave shook his head in awe at the magic surrounding him in his beloved Opera House. "What do you play, _monsieur_?" Gustave blushed for the first time in years.

"The violin, but sir, don't burden yourself by-"

"Oh, it is no bother, I am sure Cerise would be delighted! The maste- I mean, she has not been played in years!" He turned back to the footrest. "Mini, go at once and fetch Cerise, would you?" Mini purred and sped off.

"What is this I hear of a guest?" came a female voice from behind him. Gustave turned to see a beautiful golden mirror entering. Behind her came a dainty pair of ballet slippers.

"Madame Giry!" the candelabra called out, "We have a poor violinist who was almost robbed here, and-"

"Andre, you know how the master feels about guests," Madame Giry scolded. Gustave frowned. Who was this "master" everyone continued to mention? Should he be wary of him?

"But Madame-"

"Don't interrupt me! I was only telling you that I agree. Leaving a victim in the cold is unacceptable, I should know." She made her way over to Gustave. "_Bienvenue, mon nom est Madame Giry_," she said. Gustave dipped his head and smiled.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"And this is my daughter," she said, as the pair of ballet slippers hopped up to the armrest, "Meg Giry."

"_Bonjour_," Meg said, her voice soft and sweet as honey.

"I have a daughter," Gustave said fondly, "Christine. She is nineteen, and she-"

"A daughter?" Andre asked, "Well, maybe she could visit us!"

"Oh, I need to return to her, she is probably worried . . ." Gustave murmured, "I'm late getting ho-"

He was cut off as the door swung open. Instantly, the fire went out from the wind, and Gustave froze. He heard the steps approaching, even and menacing.

"There is a stranger here," came the voice. Gustave gulped. The voice was musical, but low and threatening.

"Master, I-" Andre began.

"_Silence_!" came the voice, louder. The chair Gustave sat in whirled around, and Gustave found himself staring at a dark form silhouetted in the night. The form was tall and well-built, but very regal in itself. He gulped. The form turned to Madame Giry, reflecting a white mask covering half of the man's face. Gustave tore his eyes away in fright.

"Why have you allowed this, Giry? You have no right! I am tempted to smash you right now!" he spat. Madame Giry did not flinch.

"Erik, you are losing your temper. Calm down before you do something you'll regret."

"Do not tell me of my temper, Giry! I am the master of this Opera, not you!" the figure roared, turning in a dramatic swing to face Gustave. "And who is this? A guest?" He laughed humorlessly. "Who are you?" Gustave remained still, frozen in fear. "Answer me now!"

"G-gustave Daaé, monsieur!" he stammered. Suddenly, a memory stirred in his mind. A legend. He had told it to young Christine before the Opera had closed down, as it was a fantastic tale to explain all of the accidents at the famous house of arts. "You're . . . the Phan-"

"-tom of the Opera? You're not the first to believe it, monsieur." He leaned closer to Gustave. "And do you know, my friend, what happens to those who behold the Phantom against his own will?" Gustave merely shook his head, his heart beating rapidly, at a loss for words because of fear. The Phantom chuckled darkly. "They _disappear_!" And with that, Gustave suddenly found himself falling downwards, until he landed in cold, dark water.

And then the world turned black.

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><p>Christine looked out of the window again, her fingers tapping restlessly against the glass. Where was Father? He had said he would be home in time for supper, but it was past nine o'clock, and there was still no sign of him. She couldn't even eat out of worry.<p>

She walked from the window to put dinner away. As she was finishing up, a knock sounded at the door. She dropped the dish she was carrying and rushed to answer, swinging it wide open.

"Fathe-oh. _Bonjour_, Raoul." She sighed. Raoul opened the door the rest of the way and let himself in, smiling.

"Why hello, Christine."

"What a pleasant surprise," Christine said evenly, clenching her fists.

"Isn't it? You know, Christine, _mon cherie_, I am just full of surprises."

"I bet you are, Raoul," Christine muttered. She sighed and sat down. Raoul took the opportunity to plop down next to her, resting his feet on the table and slinging an arm around her. "You know, little Lotte," he said, using his old childhood nickname for her, "I was wondering, do you still have that red scarf I rescued for you?"

"Yes," Christine admitted, sighing. She attempted to wriggle out of his embrace, but he only tightened his grip on her.

"I was thinking, and I thought, red goes good with diamonds . . ." Christine gasped, moving away quickly.

"What?"

"You know, there isn't a girl in Paris who wouldn't want to be you right now. You are very lucky, for tonight is the night-" he paused to grab her mirror off of the coffee table and examine himself quickly, "Tonight is the night all of your dreams come true."

"What do you know of my dreams, Raoul?" Christine whispered softly, glancing out of the window and then at her songbook.

"Plenty, Lotte, trust me! Picture this," upon saying this Raoul stood up and leaned towards her. "Me and my wife, living together on the DeChangy estate, you only being forced to sing that ridiculous music in the privacy of our double shower, and all of our beautiful children, running around our yard, playing smart child games." He wagged his eyebrows. "And you know who that wife will be, Christine?" Christine drew in a deep breath, bracing herself.

"Let me guess . . ." At this, Raoul cornered her against the wall, his hot breath tickling her throat. She felt like gagging.

"You, Christine Daaé." Christine ducked under his arm and backed off.

"Oh, Raoul, I'm . . ." she backed up against the door, "Speechless!" Raoul continued his approach, leaning against her.

"Say you'll marry me. Leave this life of music behind and get a real one."

"I-I . . ." Christine turned the doorknob, "I just don't deserve you!" And upon saying that, she opened the door, knocking him off balance and clumsily into the streets in front of a large gathered crowd. Gasping, she shut the door, leaning against it.

_Me? Raoul's wife? Oh, that arrogant pig! As if I would be Countess DeChangy, the little wife of the honorable Comte DeChangy! Oh, no, I want to sing! How dare he try and take music from me!_

"Oh . . ." she murmured, worried, "I must find what has happened to Father . . ." She looked outside and sighed. "In the morning."

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><p>Erik Mulheim paced the floors of his underground lair restlessly, attempting to breathe evenly so he wouldn't just go and tear the old fool apart.<p>

The man had fallen into his lake through one of his many trapdoors, and had passed out, he had been lucky enough to have been rescued in time by Nacella, his gondola. He was now coughing away in the makeshift prison Erik had constructed in the attic of the Opera House, so that nobody could hear his coughs and pleas for help. Crazy old fool.

He paced.

Madame Giry had mentioned he had a daughter. A spark of dreaded hope ignited in his heart, but he crushed it down as passionately as he played his organ in the night.

This girl probably would never even find the Opera House, let alone care to know him. Upon seeing his horrid face, she would scream and run away. He was a monster, a deformed monster, all because of that damned enchantress!

Was it his fault he had been afraid of her, repulsed by her haggard appearance? What was he supposed to do? Ignore it? She could have been a witch, she could have been a burglar, or . . .

_Oh, what is the point of making excuses for myself? What good is it doing? I am just as bad as all of those normal persons out there, happily living. I was unable to look beyond the face and into the heart, and now that same fate shall be mine . . . I do not deserve any of this, anything at all. I am horrible, ugly, disgusting . . .  
><em>

_I am a monster._

* * *

><p>Christine woke in the morning and instantly jumped out of her bed, running to her father's room to see if he had returned in the middle of the night.<p>

It was empty.

"Father?" she called out, hoping, praying that he was somewhere in their home, in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, or tuning his precious violin in the living room.

No reply.

Just to make sure, she searched their entire home, but to no avail. Her Father was nowhere to be found. She grabbed her scarlet cloak off of the rack and ran out of the house. She was surprised at the sight before her.

"Minuit!" she said in surprise. There he was, the family's beloved black stallion, standing skittishly at the entrance to their home. "Minuit," Christine murmured softly, attempting to calm him down, "Minuit, where's Father?" Minuit tossed his head around. "Minuit, you must take me to Father. Can you do that?" He just neighed. Christine mused for a moment. "Come, Minuit, off to the Opera House!"

Luckily, Christine knew her way to the Opera House much better than her father did, from repeated trips there during the day. As she rode through, those same little people who had seen her walking through for years looked on curiously as she rode through.

She took a deep breath as she reached the Opera.

Christine nervously noted that the gates had been broken open, but nobody had noticed, obviously. She made her way towards the door, and noticed that it too, was unlocked. Biting her lip, she opened the door carefully and stepped inside.

There it was again! That music! It wasn't the same piece as yesterday, no, this was similar, but much angrier. She cringed at the thought of who had angered the composer so. Gulping, she continued on.

The Opera House was nothing like she had imagined. From the stories that Father had told her, it had seemed to bright, so happy, so full of music and laughter and singing and dancing . . .

Father! He had to be here . . .

"Father!" she called out, glancing around at the dark and dusty Opera House. She heard a rustle and then a creak behind her and whirled around. "Father?" Was Father playing around with her? Suppressing her fear, she walked through the door, which led to a winding staircase, and-

There! A light! Moving up the staircase!

"Hello?" The light kept moving. "Wait, I'm looking for my father, Gustave Daaé!" She continued running, until the light stilled. Slowing down, slightly out of breath, she turned to see a candelabra. So that must have been the light she had seen.

"Father?" she tried once more.

"Hello?" came a voice from the shadows. Christine gasped.

"Father!" she cried, running towards the sound. And there he was, behind a double mirror acting as a prison.

"Christine! H-how did you find me?" Gustave asked.

"You said you would be here," Christine said kindly, and jumped when he broke into another fit of coughing. "Oh, I've got to get you out of here, Father, what happened?"

"Christine, you must leave this place-"

"Who did this?" Was it the man playing the angry music. Christine took no notice of the music's abrupt halt.

"There is no time to explain! Go, now!"

"I cannot leave you, Father!"

"Oh look, another guest!" came a suave voice from the darkness. Christine jumped up, turning swiftly. She could barely make out the form of a tall man in the shadows. She stepped into the light. "Oh," the voice breathed softly. Her hands shook.

"Who are you?" she asked shakily. She thought she could hear him chuckle.

"The Phantom of the Opera." Christine gasped. "Ah, has your dear old father told you about me?"

"Y-yes, but-" She straightened up. Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped closer tot he shadow. "I am here to take my father home." The shadow growled.

"What gives you the right to do that?"

"Christine, please, just go home," her father begged. The Phantom laughed.

"I am sorry, Christine, but your father has intruded on my home. He is my prisoner now." Christine gasped in horror.

"Please, let him go, he's sick, he could-"

"Die? Well, that is his problem, not mine!"

"Please, monsieur, what could I do?"

"There is nothing you could do," the Phantom hissed. Christine broke down and began to cry, until suddenly an idea struck her.

"Wait!" The Phantom of the Opera froze and turned to face her.

"Maybe . . ." Christine drew a shaky breath. "What if I took his place?" Tha Phantom scoffed.

"You would do that?" he asked with disbelief. Christine nodded.

"Christine, no! Don't do-"

"Silence, old man!" The Phantom's tone softened as he spoke to Christine. "If we were to agree to this, you would have to promise to . . . stay here forever, and never leave for anything . . . or anyone. Is that clear?" Christine shut her eyes, and then opened them again.

"Come into the light," she whispered. The Phantom didn't budge. "Please," she whispered. He seemed to take a deep breath, and strode forward into the light.

* * *

><p><strong>So, thoughts? So I looked up all of the last names authors have given Erik, and I settled on Mulheim. It's pretty, is it not? Gosh, he is so hard to write! How did I do? Review, please!<strong>


	4. Chapter Three, Impressions

**A/N: My review replies just refuse to happen, so here you all go.**

**Vampiress Idrial : First off, I love your username! Secondly, yes, I don't always stick so closely to the Beauty and the Beast script, but I liked how the parts were organized and scripted, so I used it. And I did in fact do my research, I looked up the different movies and googled Erik's many different last names (Actually, there were only around three . . .) And I settled with Mulheim. And I am most impressed by your knowledge, I have saved your review to review later. =)**

**Heywhatup: Erik is masked, yes. His deformity was the curse bestowed on him by the enchantress.**

**Madame Giry: Thank you for your compliments, and I believe your only problem has been addressed above.**

**Enough rambling, I need to stop procrastinating and start writing. Here I go . . . to write . . . and I am NOT procrastinating at all . . .**

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><p>Chapter Three, Impressions<p>

Christine had expected worse. She had expected much, much worse, she thought, as the Phantom of the Opera stepped forward from the shadows and into the light. He glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable, his face wary. Half of his face, which was admittably attractive in a dramatic, refined way, was exposed, and the other half was covered up by a smooth and shining white mask that left a space for his eye. Part of his lip seemed to pull up slightly, but she convinced herself it was a trick of the light.

"Seen enough?" the Phantom chuckled darkly. Christine pursed her lips. "Do we have a deal or not?" Christine opened her mouth to reply-

"Christine, please, don't-"

"Enough from you!" the Phantom turned to face Gustave, his eyes spitting flames, and slammed his fist against the glass, so hard that for a moment Christine believed he had broken through the glass and hurt her father. She jumped back in fright.

Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes, imagining the life she had hoped, wished, and prayed for. Singing for large audiences, and singing . . .

And singing here. What sick irony. She opened her eyes, her decision made.

She stood up, stepping closer to the Phantom, holding out her hand. He hesitated, before grasping her hand with his, his hands cold as ice. She flinched slightly, which he noticed, because his grip loosened.

"We have a deal." The Phantom's mouth curved into a ghost of a smile. Christine felt the fear welling up inside.

"Christine, no!" Gustave cried. The Phantom released her hand, and she collapsed on the ground, sobbing. The Phantom turned from her, to the mirror that held her father.

"Take him to the coach, and have him take this man to town," he said. Christine narrowed her eyes. Was this Phantom completely insane?

She had thought too soon, for right as the thought escaped her subconscious, the mirror _stood up _and _walked down the stairs_. Christine gasped audibly, drawing an amused smirk from the Phantom. She dashed forward to say goodbye to her father, but the Phantom caught her, holding her firmly in place. She struggled against his grasp, calling out to her father.

"Father!" she cried. "Let me go!" she screamed, hitting against the Phantom's arm as hard as she could, but his grip only tightened. She turned and slapped him across the face, and he did not flinch, though his eyes darkened.

"Christine, don't do this! Please, take me instead!" her father called from far below. She heard a loud crash and cry of pain, and then the sound of wheels fading into the dreary distance. Once again, she fell to the floor, sobbing.

"I-didn't . . . get . . . to-" she choked on her words, turning away when the Phantom knelt beside her. "-say goodbye . . ." She was overcome with grief, crying so hard her head pounded and her vision blurred. The Phantom let her go, standing back cautiously, opening his mouth, and closing it before finally speaking.

"Come, I'll take you to your room." Christine looked up in surprise, wiping away stray tears. Her breathing came in short, uneven gasps. The Phantom looked nervous, as if he didn't know how to deal with someone in pain. Christine trembled, half from grief and half from the chill of the attic.

"My room?" she questioned meekly, not understanding. The Phantom sighed, exasperated.

"Would you prefer the attic, Christine?" he asked, looking slightly amused. Finally comprehending, Christine shook her head like a child. Without saying a word, the Phantom removed his huge black cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Christine shuddered, breathing in the scent. It smelled of smoke and moisture.

"Thank you," she murmured, so softly she at first thought he hadn't heard her. But he had, as he turned and simply nodded at her. Christine took the advantage of walking behind him as they descended the stairs to study him more closely, wanting to get a better look at this, this monster who had separated her from her father and stolen her dreams. To think she had been free to live her life happily this very morning!

He walked with a strong yet labored stride, and his back had a slight hunch to it. His hair . . . was that a wig? She wished she could reach out and touch it, but she was afraid to. It would not be worth it.

What did he plan to do with her? Would he attempt to court her, or would he just make her prey in his lust for flesh, or worse, blood? She glanced at the walls of the hallway they were now passing through, examining the intricate design. A tear escaped, slowly making its way down her face before dripping to the floor. A voice murmured something, and she looked up. The candelabra was whispering to the Phantom. Too exhausted to be frightened or surprised, she just accepted the fact of the matter and let go of all thought.

She was lost in her grief and hopelessness when the Phantom turned suddenly to her. "I hope you find happiness here, Christine." She simply looked down at the floor, answer enough. The candelabra spoke again, and the Phantom followed suit. "The Opera is your home now, you may go anywhere you wish, except for my quarters."

"Where are they?" she asked softly.

"Underground," the Phantom replied, "You need not worry about stumbling upon them by mistake." The statement held a hint of menace, of warning. Christine chose not to reply. They began to ascend a flight of stairs, and Christine stumbled on the large black cloak, letting out a small scream. She began to fall backwards, half-hoping she would hit her head hard enough to make herself undesirable. But the Phantom reached out, catching her arm and pulling her upright with ease.

"Watch your step," he murmured in his voice of silk. Christine nodded breathlessly.

"Thank you," she said for the second time that night. Why was she thanking him so much tonight, when he had taken everything she loved away from her? What a confusing character he was, this Phantom of the Opera. He does small acts of kindness, acting like the perfect gentleman, and yet she was his captive, his prisoner. A spark of hope ignited that perhaps he would treat her decently.

They continued walking through a new hallway, and the Phantom stopped at a door, holding the candelabra over by the sign, which read: Stage Hands Only. "This leads to rafters, it was used for sets and such. Do not use this door, if you wish to enter the stage, go downstairs. I do not want you falling." Christine looked at him, curiosity written across her face. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes guarded and cold, before turning and continuing their walk.

They finally passed a sign that read: Dormitories. The Phantom turned to her.

"You may choose any room you wish for tonight, tomorrow my workers will set to turning these rooms into a suite for your use. You may use any furniture you like around the Opera House. Just ask and my workers will take it up here." He paused, eying her. "You are hungry." Christine shook her head, but he didn't take notice. The candelabra whispered something to him. "Come downstairs for dinner in an hour. . . That is not a request!" And with a dramatic flourish, he disappeared into the dark shadows of the halls.

Christine dropped to the floor, crying once again.

* * *

><p>Erik walked as fast as he could down the stairs, dropping Andre on an empty podium.<p>

Christine was even more beautiful than he had ever imagined a woman to be, the most lovely creature he had ever seen. How could he possibly win her affections, after making her his prisoner? How could he get her to see beyond his mask?

He opened the door that led to his chambers, descending the stairs as swiftly as possible. It came to his attention that he had left his cloak with the girl. A chill racked through his body, and he welcomed the discomfort, after all, didn't he deserve it?

"Um, Master?" Erik turned angrily.

"What now, Andre?" he demanded. The candelabra hopped forward humbly.

"Master, I may be mistaken, but you might want to be a little . . . gentler with the girl." Erik swung around.

"What are you trying to say, Andre?" he asked, a hint of a growl ringing in his already menacing voice. Andre gulped.

"Master, she has lost much today. Maybe try to find something to make her happy, or-"

"Enough from you!" Erik yelled, "I wish to be alone." Andre hung his "head" in defeat and wobbled off, leaving Erik to his thoughts.

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><p>Christine sat on the bed silently, staring out of the small window into the streets of Paris. Was there a way she could climb out? Signal for help? She glanced around at the window, looking for a lock, but finding none. This Phantom must have removed everything. The rest of the Opera House must be like this as well.<p>

Giving up, she collapsed back on the bed, sighing. Might as well get cozy. She glanced around the small room. Her bed was small, covered in old sheets still covered by a small layer of dust. There was a small desk and chair with a mirror near the door, it reminded her of a dressing room. Well, she was in an Opera, wasn't she?

She looked down at her dress. With a wry smile she realized she was still in her nightgown and red cloak.

Cloak.

She immediately threw the warmth that was the Phantom of the Opera's black cloak across the room and into the wall. It fell gracefully to the floor, pooling together in a corner. She stared fearfully at it. Would the Phantom use it as an excuse to come back? She shuddered at the very idea of having to look at this wretched person ever again.

A knock sounded at the door, and she froze in fear.

"Miss Christine?" It was not the Phantom's voice. She relaxed.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Madame Giry."

"And Meg!" Christine's eyebrows furrowed. Bt the voices were friendlier and . . . feminine.

"Come in," she replied softly. The door creaked open, and she jumped slightly as a mirror slid in, followed by a pair of soft pink ballet slippers. The mirror smiled at her.

"I am Madame Giry. It is a pleasure to meet you, Christine."

"_Bonjour_," Christine murmured with a smile. The ballet slippers jumped beside her on the bed.

"I am Meg Giry. Nice to meet you!" She smiled. "I think you and I will be very good friends, Christine." Christine managed to smile for the first time since she had arrived at that dreaded Opera House.

"Nice to meet you too," Christine said softly. She shook her head in wonder. "I can't believe this . . ." Madame Giry chuckled.

"It does seem out of this world, doesn't it?" Madame Giry asked, smiling. "I hope, my dear, you will not jump every time something moves that normally shouldn't. Everything here is alive." Christine jumped off of the bed, and Meg laughed.

"Nothing here is, Christine."

"Oh," Christine blushed, sitting back down. She sighed, looking back out the window,

"Christine, the reason I came here . . . I think you shouldn't be afraid of the Master. He doesn't like it when others fear him." Christine turned to face Madame Giry angrily.

"Well then he shouldn't frighten me so!" Madame Giry sighed.

"I know, I never said he was without flaws, I just hope you will look past the facade he puts up and see who he is on the inside."

"Who is he on the inside?"

"That, young one, is for you to find out. Will you be coming down to dinner?" Christine didn't even have to contemplate on her answer, for her mind was already made up, in fact, it had been made up ever since she had been left to choose a room.

"No." Madame Giry tensed.

"Miss Daaé, the Master is not a patient man, he doesn't take well to being blatantly disobeyed-"

"I don't care." Tears welled up in Christine's eyes. "He took away my life. I would never share a meal with that . . . that monster!" Madame Giry stiffened.

"Please, do not call him that. If you get to know him, you will find he is intelligent, kind, and caring. Please, give him a chance, he deserves so much more than what life has given him."

"I don't want to see him, please, forgive me, but would you leave me alone? This is too much for one day. I need time to think . . . alone. I can't even think of eating right now."

That was a complete and total lie. She was shaking from hunger, having not eaten since lunch the day before. Madame Giry could see right through her weak facade, and just smirked at her as she left the room. Meg bounded into her lap, looking her square in the eyes, looking completely and utterly serious.

"For what it's worth, Christine, I agree with my mother on this one."

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><p><strong>So . . . thoughts? Review! I apologize that not every chapter can be over 3000 words, but I was pressed for time and I didn't want to begin rambling.<strong>


	5. Chapter Four, Impressions Part II

**A/N: Okay, so, I am now out of school, so no more excuses for moi! Well, from here on out the story will mainly be from Christine's view, as I find it much more useful in telling the story. But do not fret, Erik will have his little snippets as well!**

**And I hope you won't mind a LONG wait for serious romance to kick in, after all, I do have a plot to put forth. The next few chaps won't exactly stick to the Beauty and the Beast story, so be patient. But I haven't completely forgotten, and trust me, I have a feeling you'll like the chaps and twists I have ahead. ;)**

**My gosh, I am SO SORRY for the wait, but my muse is being difficult. So bear with me, my friends. Plus, I have a "poster" for the story up on my DeviantArt. Check it out! http:/gabmouse(dot)deviantart(dot)com/#/d3gfoab**

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><p>Chapter Four, Impressions Part II<p>

Christine sat curled up on her bed, her mind racing. She silently rose from her perch and approached the door, reaching for the handle, but then pulled back. No, she would not give in and accept another kindness from the Phantom. She couldn't make herself indebted to him anymore, she could not afford to. Gulping, she stepped back, simply looking at the door, thinking.

Her stomach betrayed her mind, growling intensely, and she gave up. Her body needed food. Walking back to the door, she opened it, wincing as it creaked loudly, betraying her. Glancing cautiously around the dimly lit hallway, she crept through, hoping she wouldn't loose her way in the many corridors.

She reached the stairs the Phantom had helped her through, and blindly felt her way down, gripping the railing fiercely. She froze at the sudden movement behind her.

"_Mademoiselle_! You have emerged!" She whirled around, her fears dissolving as she beheld Andre. He lit himself up and approached her. She picked him up, grateful for the light to guide her.

"_Bonjour_, Andre."

"Why are you out of your room at so late a time?" Andre asked with a flattering smile. Christine couldn't help but giggle at his overly dramatic kindness. They made their way through the corridor in a comfortable silence, but Christine sensed curiosity radiating from the candelabra. She stopped near a marvelous statue of an angel.

"I apologize for wandering so late. But I got hungry, and I have not eaten since yesterday, so . . ." Andre gasped, causing Christine to jump.

"Ah! Unacceptable! You must be fed at once, Miss Daaé!" He leaped out of her grasp, landing ungracefully on the ground in his rushing, drawing a small laugh from Christine. "Come, come, _mon cherie_, and follow me!" He bounded through the hallways with great speed, and Christine, shaking with hunger, struggled to follow him. He finally led her into a great dining hall. "This is where we would hold grand dinners to celebrate different productions," he explained with a smile, "Our chefs will be delighted to have you. Sit yourself wherever you wish, and I will return with your meal in no time!" Christine nodded silently and sat down.

"Christine!" Christine turned around and smiled upon beholding Meg, who bounced onto the table excitedly. Christine blinked at the thought of shoes being on her dining table, but she pushed her thoughts away quickly, content to have a friend to talk to.

"Good evening, Meg," Christine said softly, and then lowered her voice to say, "_He_ won't be angry that I came out, will he?" she whispered. Meg hesitated.

"I . . . he doesn't have to know, does he?" A bolt of anxiety burst through Christine.

"Should I eat in my room?"

"No, no!" Meg struggled for words, flustered. "You'll be fine over here. The Master has already eaten his dinner." Christine nodded, taking a few deep breaths to relax herself.

_He won't come here._

Deep breath.

_I can eat my meal in peace._

Deeper breath.

_These are the kind ones, here. I will be alright._

(**A/N: Hey, so sorry for the interruption, but I cannot write a Be Our Guest snippet, for one, I do not write songs into this, it does not fit, and it just won't suit the story and where I want to take it. Too . . . cheerful, you know? Hehehe imagine Madame Giry singing that. _"Goddness sake, is that a spot?"_**)

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><p>Christine elected to make her way back to her room alone, lost in thought about how she would live her life in this hellish Opera House. Would she live this life as if it <em>were<em> a hell? Could she possibly find a way to make her life enjoyable, somewhat? But how would she do that? She knew the answer immediately, it came so naturally she found herself longing for it to be that simple in executing.

She had to avoid the Phantom of the Opera.

She made her way through the hallways silently, slightly curious about the realms of this mysterious building she had longed to see for her entire childhood. The hallways, if properly lit, would have been absolutely magnificent. They were built of exquisite white (or grey, she could not directly tell since she was in the dark, for the most part.) Statues of angels, men, women, children, and animals emerged from the grand walls, captivating her.

She jumped at the chime of the grand clock, indicating that midnight had arrived. Her first night in the Opera had ended. She took a deep breath. She could do this. For Father, she would do this.

Feeling invigorated by this epiphany and new willingness, she walked closer to the walls, running her hand over the lightly dusted statues and smiling scarcely.

She had begun to feel somewhat normal again when a sound reached her ears that chilled her to the bone. Trembling, and without hunger as an excuse this time, she threw herself against the wall, feeling shivers traveling up and down her body. It was that music. The music that had led her to the wretched Opera House in the first place. The music that haunted her dreams and thoughts continuously. This music, instead of a hopeless or angry edge, conveyed an entirely new emotion- confusion. The notes were jagged and quick, constantly changing tempo or volume but retaining the complicated and beautiful quality that had first attracted her to it. Taking a deep breath, she slowly began to walk forward, drawn by an indescribable enchantment cast by the beautiful melodies.

The music, the song, led her through several new hallways, each of them growing simpler and darker each time she came upon a new one. The lights grew dimmer in each new passageway, and she found herself relying on the soft glow of the moon as time passed by. Soon, the hallways turned to caverns and the walls turned from marble to wood to rough stone. She trembled, literally feeling her way through the darkness blindly. She stumbled once, and withheld her cry of fright so that she wouldn't be caught. Her curiosity and longing to finally behold the mysterious . . . angel of music kept her wandering in the heavy darkness.

She continued her blind travels, still completely drawn by the lush and mystifying melody. Finally a hazy orange glow appeared from a corner, and, breathing a sigh of relief, Christine quickened her pace, carelessly discarding her shoes so that she would not be detected. As she stepped into the smokey haze of light, she smelled a strong scent- incense. Fighting a cough, she continued to creep forward, ignoring her mind's protests. The melody was so close now, she could feel the sheer passion of the musician from where she stood.

Eventually, she came upon a most surprising sight. A large room, carved from the ground, it seemed. The room was filled with elegant furniture, some of it seemed very classical, and some of it looked as if it were Persian. It was a beautiful mix, and it set the perfect atmosphere for the music, which was so, so very close now. She continued forward, taking caution so as not to trip over any cracks or step on any discarded items located around the . . . room? Eventually she came upon a room with a solid metal door, and peeked around the edge.

The sight she saw made her cover her mouth to stifle a shocked and almost horrified gasp.

It was _him_ playing the despondent organ. _Him_. The song came to an abrupt halt, and he whirled around, rising. Christine darted back, hiding behind a door as he emerged, his hands gripping each other behind his back. He wore no mask, she realized, when he turned towards her, but she could not look at his face since she pressed her head against the wall, terrified he would catch her.

He made his way to one of the classical couches, sitting down with unusual grace and burying his head in hands, sobbing with no tears. Christine's heart betrayed her as she felt a pang of pity for the miserable creature before her, and let out the breath she had been holding, the woman in her wanting to reach out and comfort him, the victim screaming at her not to. But alas, the Phantom sensed her movement and froze, standing, as Christine shrunk deeper into the crevice, silently sending up prayers to God.

She could feel his harsh eyes staring intently at the door she hid behind, and she held her breath. The air seemed to be against her, seeming to pause, making even the slightest movement painfully loud and obvious. For the longest moment, the Phantom stared at the door before turning and going back to his organ room. Christine, refusing to take any more risks, ran with all of the speed she could muster, out of the strange dwelling of the Phantom's, leaving her shoes behind.

She stumbled through the darkness, keeping up with the quick tempo of this new, completely different song the Phantom played. The notes tumbled out in a jumbled rush, portraying fear, terror, and . . .regret . . . hopelessness?

She wandered through the dark tunnels aimlessly, driven by her complete and utter terror. Who was this, this person, no, this monster? One moment, he was harsh and unforgiving, the next, kind and gentle, and then, a victim of emotions. He was becoming more and more human to her, and she had only been with him for a day, no, a night and spoken to him once. If he caught her he would surely have to punish her, after all, she had broken the only rule he had directly given her, and the consequences would be . . . horrendous. What if he beat her, threw her into that terrible mirror prison, or worse? She gripped tightly to the facade of him being a beast as she stumbled upon a door. She reached out and opened it, and to her complete surprise, found herself in a splendid and breathtaking theater.

The seats were made of a plush bright scarlet velvet and worn gold. More unrealistically gorgeous statues graced the balconies and boxes. But the most prominent point of interest in this haven was the grand stage. Covered by intimidating burgundy curtains that looked as if they hadn't seen action in years, the stage was made out of what appeared to be high quality wood, and was absolutely stunning. Christine found herself entranced for the second time that night and approached the stage, stepping onto it and immediately walking centerstage.

What was that dream of hers again? The dream she had nurtured ever since Father had told her stories of the Opera House? She opened her mouth and sang.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly,_

_when we've said goodbye._

_Remember me once in a while -_

_please promise me you'll try._

_When you find that, once again, you long_

_to take your heart back and be free -_

_if you ever find a moment,_

_spare a thought for me . . . ._"

She closed her eyes and for a moment, this nightmare she was in faded away.

She was on the stage, except when her eyes opened she was not in the darkness anymore, alone and surrounded by torn up memories, but surrounded by dancers from the ballet, and lavish sets with an adoring audience in front of her applauding her.

"_We never said our love was evergreen,_

_or as unchanging as the sea -_

_but if you can still remember_

_stop and think of me . . ._

_Think of all the things_

_we've shared and seen -_

_don't think about the way things_

_might have been . . ._

_Think of me, think of me waking,_

_silent and resigned._

_Imagine me, trying too hard_

_to put you from my mind._

_Recall those days_

_look back on all those times,_

_think of the things we'll never do -_

_there will never be a day,_

_when I won't think of you . . ._"

She suddenly became aware of a rustling coming from one of the boxes and was thrust back into reality. Her singing halted, as abruptly as the Phantom's song had just minutes earlier. She shook her head, never wanting to feel that sense of horror ever again, but knowing the spell of the Phantom of the Opera's music was inescapable. She would return, and, in her subconscious, she knew that her being caught was inevitable.

But for now, she would loose herself in her dreams, dreams that were coming true in an incredibly bittersweet fashion. Here she was, singing in the Opera House, fulfilling her dreams at the cost of her life outside.

"_Flowers fade,_

_The fruits of summer fade,_

_They have their seasons, so do we_

_but please promise me, that sometimes_

_you will think of me!_"

Christine finished her song with a sore throat, desperately wishing for training. She quietly made her way back into the house, sitting down in the front row and drifting off to sleep, fearful yet hopeful that this life, this dark life full of light, would become clearer to her, and that her purpose there would as well.

_Father, my sacrifice will not be in vain. Do not worry about me, please._

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><p><strong>So . . . has my muse really returned? Only one way to let me know . . .<strong>


	6. Chapter Five, Aberrations

**A/N: Ever heard of this little movie called Pirates of the Carribean 4? Well, it turns out I went to see it Saturday and LOVED IT! It was my favorite yet . . . and that means I might drabble in that fandom a bit.  
><strong>

**I am SO SORRY about the long update, I've been uber busy and the weather has been insane, but mostly I've just been busy. Forgive me. I do happen to have a life outside of writing, believe it or not.**

**To answer questions, yes, Madame Giry, I do happen to be female. And Erik's compositions are of his own hand, for who else could come up with such haunting melodies as I have described? Certainly not me . . .**

**Enough ramblings, I should get writing. Anyone ready for a sneaky Christine? Hehehe . . .**

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><p>Chapter Five, Aberrations<p>

Christine sat silently in the balcony of the great theater, her eyes closed lazily, humming softly. The theater had become her favorite place to relax and spend her free time. With a smile she opened her eyes, looking across the theater. She had been assured by Meg that the Phantom avoided the Theater at all costs, and so she remained here, desperate to never see him.

One week had past since her life-altering bargain with the Phantom, and not much had changed. Her room, as the Phantom had promised, had been expanded into a comfortable suite, with a bedroom, a small living room, a bathroom, and a walk-in closet Christine had turned into a dressing room. She had considered herself silly for doing so, but she liked the idea of having one, with a mirror and all of her grooming supplies she had been given. She only used her bathroom for sanitary purposes.

She had elected to paint the rooms along with the servants, becoming friends with many of the paintbrushes along the way. They were all very helpful and friendly, full of knowledge and wit. She had painted her bedroom a dark orange/brown color, warm and inviting. The seamstress-sewing machines had made her ivory and chocolate-colored sheets, and after exploring, Christine had a wooden nightstand brought in along with a small pale orange cushioned chair.

Her small living room was painted a soft lavender to contrast her cozy bedroom. In it were sapphire-blue couches from a previous production and a marble coffee table. Old librettos were stacked neatly in a bookcase she had found in her explorations. Several paintings and portraits of previous stars from years past decorated the walls. Her personal favorite was the portrait of an angel cradling a blue rose. Meg had tracked it down from a dressing room and Christine had fallen in love with it. She loved her living room, and would spend the time she spent away from the auditorium there, reading and singing to herself.

The main doors to the Theater were practically shoved open as a tall figure entered, wearing the black cloak that he had given her the week before. She gulped, sinking further into her seat as chills ran down her spine. The figure heard the noise and turned, confirming her fears. The Phantom exited into the hallway as Christine recoiled into the chair, her heart racing.

What if he knew she had been n his lair all those nights ago, and nights since? His music was intoxicating, and though she would end up running away almost fearing for her life, every night the melodies would drift into her room, and she would return eagerly. He had almost caught her twice now, the one time on the first night, and two nights ago, when she had retrieved her shoes and dropped them. He had pursued her through the catacombs, but she had managed to escape. And yet she returned the next night, and knew that, despite her qualms, she would go back tonight to hear the heavenly music once again.

She became aware of the presence behind her a few moments later, and she remained quiet, refusing to acknowledge him, hoping he would grow bored and leave her in peace. But alas, he remained behind her, a constant shadow. She finally turned, refusing to speak, simply acknowledging him. He pulled something out of his cape. A book.

"Do you enjoy reading, Christine?" he asked softly, gently. Christine blinked in surprise. He had yet to speak to her so . . . kindly. She nodded wordlessly, unable to form a proper sentence. The Phantom held out the book, his eyes wary and guarded. Christine reached out, taking the novel with a small smile. She had read most of the old librettos Madame Giry had given her, and was in need of new reads.

"Thank you," she murmured, glancing up at him from under her eyelashes. He simply nodded.

"There are more novels around the Opera House. Ask around and you may find some. My servants will assist you." Christine nodded meekly. The Phantom looked at her for a moment, and then began to leave her, hanging his head in defeat. Christine felt a pinch of guilt, but pushed it aside as a question rose in her mind.

"Um, sir?" she called out. He turned around.

"Yes, ma'am?" he replied with a half-smirk on his face. Christine pursed her lips, not comfortable with teasing of any sort, especially coming from him.

"Are any of the books . . . alive?" The Phantom merely rolled his eyes and walked off.

She did not hear his reply.

"They might be after beholding such beauty."

Christine sat in her living room, reading the novel the Phantom had given to her. It was a tragic love story, one she had heard of but never had the chance to read. Two feuding families, and two young lovers, desperate to be together at all costs. It slightly disturbed her that the Phantom had chosen to give her this particular novel, but she brushed it off, refusing to think of his motives, whatever they might have been.

And then she heard it again . . . that chilling music. Trembling, she closed the book and gripped her sheets.

No, no. She would not go down there again. She had heard this music before, she could listen from here.

The music grew louder.

_Oh, who am I trying to kid?_

Christine rose and took off her slippers, knowing better than to try and go down into the murky depths of that place in shoes. No, she would not make that mistake ever again. It was funny how her life seemed to settle in this one, dull yet invigorating routine. In the morning, she would wake and groggily make her way to the kitchen, where the ever-kind servants there would have some fruity breakfast treat waiting for her. After breakfast, she would wander around the Opera House, searching for furniture to put in her room. Sometimes Meg would join her, sometimes she would search alone. She would finish her searching around lunchtime and would return to the kitchen for a swift meal. After her lunch, she would go to the auditorium and relax, or sing if she was sure she was completely alone. Dinner was a different matter. After that first disastrous night, he had not requested that she join him since. She had walked in on him once, and had quickly slipped away awkwardly. He hadn't been wearing his mask then, but she had only seen his normally exposed side. Since then, she would always give him ample time to eat his dinner before going down herself. And after that, she would return to suite, and always end up sneaking down to listen to his haunting music.

Her schedule was about to complete itself, Christine noted wryly as she crept through the hallways as quietly as possible. Her eyes, tainted silver by the soft glow of the moonlight, scanned the halls for a sign of any living object. Sneaking would be so much easier if she didn't need to worry about inanimate objects springing to life in front of her and exposing her. No, she definitely did not need that.

By now, she had memorized the route down into the Phantom's not-secret-anymore lair, and could navigate there with her eyes closed. Though, with the darkness of the tunnels it would have made no distinct difference whether she did or did not. She made her way through the damp passageway as silently as possible, walking to the beat of the chilling melody. In the back of her mind, she wondered if this was how the rest of her imprisoned life would play out. Secretly obsessing over the music of her captor, with whom she had no contact with if she could help it.

What scared her the most, she noted as she finally reached his lair and sat down near the entrance to his cavernous living space, was that the music he played and presumably wrote, as she had never heard it before him, made him seem to her like less of a monster and more of a human. A lonely, tormented soul that only wished to be loved, to be treated with compassion. Christine had to admit that the Phantom's compositions were even more emotionally stirring than the ones written by her father for the violin.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, a half-smile gracing her face as she lost herself in the music. Her head drooped and she stirred, blinking. Dozing off was certainly a bad idea, not good at all. She stood up quickly, noticing the music had stopped, and froze against the wall as she listened to him walk around his space, picking things up and placing them elsewhere. After several endless moments, he finally blew out the candles and she heard a door slam.

Trembling, she glanced around the corner, and her fear peaked as she looked into the darkness. Seeing nobody there, she breathed out a sigh of relief and rounded the corner for the second time in her stay. She was about to turn and leave when she noticed a dim red glow coming from a room. Her eyes gleaming with a sudden burst of curiosity (her father always called it her worst flaw), she tip-toed forward carefully.

She opened the thick door with extreme caution, glancing around the dimly lit room to make sure she was alone, but was captivated prematurely by the source of the mysterious glow. Stepping closer, her eyes widened in awe at the sight before her.

It was a dark red, almost black rose, but it wasn't just laying there, no, it was floating. Christine removed the glass covering in order to get a closer look at the glowing flower. Mesmerized, she reached forward to touch it . . .

Suddenly, a rough hand gripped her shoulder tightly, and Christine shut her eyes in terror.

"Why are you down here?" Christine kept her eyes shut, afraid of what she might see. She recognized the Phantom of the Opera's menacing yet silky voice behind her.

"I, I heard the music, and I wanted to-"

"You are not welcome down here!" the voice roared. Furious, Christine whirled around to face him, and screamed.

She now knew why he wore a mask. His face, if it could even be called a face, was incredibly deformed, with peels of skin shredding off and enormous warts . . . she felt like she was about to get sick at the mere sight. He noted her reaction with even more anger, scaring her further.

"Not what you expected, my sweet?" he sneered, pushing her away, causing her to trip and fall on the ground.

In all of her time at the Opera House, Christine had never truly feared for her life. She feared the Phantom, that was for sure, but she had never feared he would harm her in any way. Now, with him towering over her in fury, she feared him.

Picking herself up, she ran out of the dark room and fled.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, guesses as to what will happen next? And who would like to live in Christine's suite? XD<br>**

**Also, BIG ANNOUNCEMENT**

**I am holding a contest for this story. Readers, come up with a character to live in the Opera House. They may be any object you wish, as long as it makes sense (e.g. no televisions or cell phones) and I want a nice description, name, and backstory. Take all of the time you need, you may PM me or submit the character via review. Here is the form to use:**

**Name:**

**Object:**

**Human Description:**

**Object Description/Picutre(optional):**

**Job at Opera House:**

**Personality:**

**Backstory:**

**Friends: (Will this object be a companion to Erik or Christine?)**

**THANKS for reading and reviewing, and I look forward to seeing your entries!**


	7. Chapter Six, Second Glances

**A/N: Wow, where do I even begin? Can I ever make amends for such a long hiatus? Well, I can try I suppose. After posting the previous chapter, my mental muse suddenly disappeared. Seriously. I tried and tried and tried again to write a proper chapter, but each time all I could get out was utter garbage. I am so, so sorry. I planned to bring this back to life in August, but then when school began I got very, very busy. I'm taking three honors classes. I'm busy. I was also involved in my school's musical and am now in our production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. However, I got a message a few months back asking me to continue and I couldn't get it out of my mind. So I figured that Spring Break was a good time to find my muse, which sort of returned with a bang after I got my 25th Anniversary DVD. If any of my old readers can return to me, thank you all so much. It means the world to me. However,, I cannot promise that updates will come often. Be patient with me.**

**Note: There is some Google Translate French in here. I take Latin. Don't expect me to be an expert in French. Especially on break. XD**

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><p>Chapter Six, Second Glances<p>

Erik watched after her for several long moments, breathing heavily. He grabbed his mask from the organ, where he had placed it, and snapped it on his face in an instant, almost relishing in the pain of the action.

In a flash of dark humor, he smirked icily as he realized he had been right before when he had assumed that the girl would run away upon beholding his hideous carcass of a face. He hadn't even known her then. This new rejection hurt more than he could have possibly even imagine. Her eyes . . . she had been terrified.

The small candle on his mantle flickered and then went out, mirroring his tumultuous emotions.

He knew the child did not deserve to feel the wrath of his anger. However, he could not bring himself to pity her enough to go after her. He had warned her not to disturb his solitude. Her hearing his music was the most humiliating thing he could ever imagine happening to him. His music was his soul and agony bared, and to have her hear it so soon . . . He might as well have confessed the stirrings in his dull and numb heart to her.

In the short exchanges he had shared with her, he had begun to feel an animal magnetism begin to form in his heart. Everything about Christine was intoxicating . . . Her voice, however untrained it was, her eyes, her ever-soft looking skin, her long and lustrous hair, her love of reading . . .

Erik grabbed his nearest sheet music and threw it at the wall with great force and anger. He then heard the sound of approaching steps.

Firmin hobbled in, panicked.

"Master!" he cried, "The girl! She's-"

"I am aware," Erik said harshly, turning around and sitting at his organ and striking the keys angrily. Firmin stepped back, frightened by the sudden wave of outrage. Madame Giry emerged from the darkness only seconds after the music began again.

"You!" she cried out shrilly. Erik's angry notes ceased and he turned around, as shocked by Madame Giry's boldness as Firmin was.

"Yes, Madame?" he asked calmly, his eyes simmering with unconcealed anger. Madame Giry stared back at him defiantly.

"Break me," she dared in response to his expression, "Let even more bad luck fall upon you through your own fault!"

"Could such a thing as more bad luck even exist for Erik?" Erik muttered harshly.

"The girl has gone out into the cold all alone," she said as if Erik had not even spoken at all, "It has begun to snow quite heavily. The girl will catch a cold."

"Let her," Erik murmured, his hands balling into a tight fists,refusing to feel pity for the girl. Madame Giry sighed.

"So much progress, Master. I would not believe you would throw away a halfway-finished masterpiece." Erik let out a cruel laugh.

"Halfway-finished?" Erik cried in rage, "The child loathes the very sight of me! She fears me!"

"She respects you," Firmin put in quickly. This had no visible effect on Erik, who had begun to pace. Inside, however, pity was crawling through his heart, breaking through his walls.

"She is drawn to your music unlike anyone I have ever seen before," Madame Giry murmured, earning sudden silence from the Phantom and the clock.

Erik turned away from the two objects. "Leave me to my thoughts," he said firmly. Firmin quickly obeyed, but Madame Giry lingered a moment longer.

"One more thing, Master. I saw several drunken-looking men begin to go after Miss Daae as soon as she exited through our gates."

* * *

><p>Christine ran through the streets, hot tears streaming down her face. She clung her thin cloak around her frame. She had been completely unprepared for the blizzard she had run out into. She rounded a corner and sank to the ground, pulling her hood over her face to shield it from the snowflakes which were falling so fast that they were stinging her skin.<p>

The tears continued to fall.

Christine's emotions were in a tumult. Aside from the sharp fear she still felt coursing through her that was almost prompting her to continue running from the mysterious Phantom, in her mind, she was struggling against feelings of guilt and relief.

His face.

She had finally seen the face she had wondered about for so long. That horrid, tortured face was not permanently etched in her mind. What had struck her the most was not the scars, although they surely caught her off guard. No, what really cut her to the core was his eyes. Those piercing, dark eyes held so much in their depths. So much sadness, so much longing. It had frightened her.

But his _hands_. Those hands that had gripped her so tightly, that had taken her father away from her. The hands that had played such haunting melodies on the organ and had without a doubt crafted a mask for him to hide behind.

She almost felt guilty for leaving the man or monster with the sad eyes and strong hands behind, but then her mind turned to the thought of finally seeing her dear father again.

If she could only find her way home!

She drew her cloak tighter, now starting to shiver. Her cloak was soaked through and her fingers were numb with cold.

_"Regardez ce que nous avons ici!"_ Christine stood up in a flash, growing alert immediately.

Five me were advancing towards her. Judging from the way they were walking, Christine came to the conclusion that they were drunk. She backed up but her back met the wall. She cursed inwardly for that. The men all began to laugh, encircling her, trapping her.

_"Vous avez l'air solitaire, mademoiselle,"_ said one.

"Besoin d'une entreprise?"

One man reached out and grabbed Christine by the waist, pulling her to him. Without conscious thought, she slapped him, adrenaline fuelling the blow. The man staggered back, shocked, before approaching her and grabbing her hair, tugging her to him and punching her, knocking her to the ground. Christine let out a scream and the men laughed. Christine then felt her head slam against the wall and she sunk to the ground, dazed. The men were cutting off any means of escape when suddenly . . .

Bang!

A flash of bright orange fire burst among the men, scattering them. Christine gathered up her legs and scooted farther against the wall, holding back a scream.

"_Qu'est-ce que cette merde_?" one of the men yelled, pulling out a knife. Christine let out a strangled yelp as another bright flash appeared in front of the man, who was knocked back.

"Bravo, monsieur! Such spirited words!" said the voice of the new attacker mockingly. Christine let out a choked sob upon recognizing the voice.

The Phantom of the Opera had come to her rescue.

He was dressed in such a fashion that she almost did not recognize him. He wore a black fedora, which made him, if observed from the right angle, handsome. He also wore a long and flowing black cloak. It was like watching a dream. She shook off the thoughts, attempting to remain alert, but all of her adrenaline was fading fast. Coherent thoughts excaped her.

Another flash of fire knocked the knife out of the man's hands and he scrambled off. Another man however, pulled out his knife and charged.

The Phantom deftly moved to the side, somehow managing to trip the man.

"More tricks, monsieur?" he asked scathingly as the man reached into his pockets for something- a shotgun. The Phantom soon unarmed him with another bright flash. Christine blinked- the man was uncommonly fast. Almost a blur . . .

Another man ran at him and Christine cried out in warning. The Phantom turned around with a laugh. "That's right, that's right, monsieur - keep walking this way!" he mocked. The man charged with outrage before being knocked back yet again by the Phantom's fire. The remaining men, upon seeing this, ran off.

Christine did not move, but stared ahead at nothing. The Phantom approached her slowly, removing his own cloak and wrapping it around her shivering body.

"No, d-d-d-don't," Christine stammered weakly.

"Shhhh," the Phantom soothed gently. "Don't panic," he murmured before taking her into his arms. "I'm going to carry you to my carriage," he explained. Christine nodded weakly, settling into the warmth of his chest and listening to his erratic heartbeat.

He settled Christine down into the small carriage and then sat beside her. It was only then that Christine noticed that he was bleeding.

"Y-y-y-you're h-h-hurt!" she whispered with concern. The Phantom smiled wryly.

"It appears I am."

"I need to take care of that," Christine murmured, "It will get infected."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," the Phantom half-snapped, half-murmured. Christine managed a shaky smile and noticed the Phantom's surprise at seeing the expression on her face.

"Wounds are like children," Christine said softly, "They need a woman's touch."

"Well," responded the Phantom after a long pause, "Not all children are so lucky."

For the rest of the ride back, Christine did not dare say another word. Instead, she studied his eyes, her lips pursed and her fingers drawing light patterns in the dark black cloak that enveloped her.

* * *

><p>"Meg Giry!" snapped Madame Giry from her perch by the Opera's entrance. Her daughter came gracefully from the hallway.<p>

"Did he find Christine?" Meg asked worriedly.

"Yes," her mother said shortly, "Prepare a bath for Christine."

"Yes, mother," Meg replied, bounding off.

To call Christine's living room tense would be a major understatement. The air was stagnant with discomfort, tension, and an unsettled argument. Christine, now in a soft blue dressing gown covered with a white robe, was soaking a rag in warn water. The Phantom sat on her couch very stiffly, his white dress shirt untucked and pulled away, exposing a rather nasty stab wound. Meg and her mother waited nearby, cautiously watching what was going on.

"Damn," the Phantom cursed under his breath as Christine pressed the warm rag against his wound.

"Watch your mouth," Christine chastised softly. The Phantom only shot her a scathing glance. Christine hid a smirk before pressing the rag against his wound again with a little more pressure.

"ARGH!" the Phantom cried out angrily, "That hurts!"

"It will hurt more if it's infected," Christine retorted. "Now stay still!"

"If you hadn't of run away this would not have even happened," he muttered darkly.

"If hadn't frightened me I wouldn't have run away," Christine replied easily.

"You should not have been in my lair!" the phantom said angrily, rising. Christine rose along with him before angrily pressing the rag against his stab wound, causing him to cry out in pain and collapse again on the couch.

"Well," Christine said triumphantly, " maybe you should learn to control your anger." With those words she folded up the rag and set it down on her table. "You may leave now." The Phantom stood up to exit, but then Christine thought of something else to say.

"Oh, wait!" she called, approaching him. He turned, surprised. Christine stood in front of him, her eyes apologetic. "I know I invaded your . . . privacy. I apologize." The Phantom stared at her in silence. "I never meant to offend you," she added quietly. "I just wanted to hear your music."

"If you ever wish to listen," the Phantom whispered, "You need only ask." Christine smiled.

The Phantom apologized to her as well, but not with words. Before leaving her to rest, he turned around and gave her a searing look filled with countless emotions that spoke countless apologies.

* * *

><p><em>One week later . . .<em>

Christine was woken in the morning by light brighter than the usual morning glow the sunlight offered on its own. Yawning, she stepped out of her bed and after getting dressed in a soft ivory dress, walked to her living room. Meg was there.

"Oh Christine, look outside!" she gushed, "I hope you don't mind that I opened your curtains." Christine chuckled.

"Why would I?" she murmured with a smile, walking to the window where Meg was perched by.

Snow from the previous week's blizzard covered everything visible with a soft white sparkle. Christine couldn't stop herself from smiling. Paris was a beautiful sight when covered with snow. Christine hadn't taken much time to really study the aftermath of the blizzard that could have killed her, most of her time had been spent in solitude, singing in her room and occasionally wandering around the Opera House in search of new librettos and novels to read.

"Did you sleep well?"

Christine jumped with a start upon hearing the booming voice of the Phantom coming from behind her. She turned around, grabbing a shawl from its perch on her couch and wrapping it around her. The Phantom lifted his visible eyebrow, seemingly amused.

"G-good morning," Christine finally said, slightly uncomfortable with the idea that the Phantom was in her room. She tried to manage a smile, but she couldn't. The Phantom studied her for a moment before saying:

"I have come to invite you to join me for a walk later this morning." Christine's eyes widened.

"Really?" The Phantom merely watched her. "Oh, of course. Yes, I would be, ah, glad to join you on a walk." She didn't dare refuse him. "What time?" She glanced at Meg for help, but her friend made it clear thats he was on her own.

The Phantom's mild surprise was evident, as his hands, which had previously been clenched, relaxed.

"I will fetch you after you eat your lunch." He gave her a nod of farewell and then walked out. Christine turned to Meg, her eyes wide.

"Did I really just agree to that?" she whispered. Meg hopped down from the window.

"Christine! This is wonderful! We must find you a suitable walking dress." Christine's eyes widened. "Oh, Mother will be pleased, as will Andre and Firmin and-"

"Meg!" Christine interjected, "Slow down for a moment! What am I even supposed to say to him? He's . . . well, you know." Meg frowned. "No, no! Not his face. Just who he is. How do I talk to him?" Meg continued frowning slightly.

"Why did you agree to walk with him then?" Christine hesitated.

"I agreed because . . . I couldn't say no, Meg."

* * *

><p>Christine set down her fork onto the napkin with a slightly shaky hand, a bit unsure. She knew that at any moment, the Phantom would appear and take her on a walk to the unknown. He was always strangely punctual, appearing right when he needed to or right when she least expected it. Somehow this week, it had not caused the usual jolt of fear in her heart.<p>

Sure enough, the Phantom appeared behind her in an instant. She didn't even have to turn around to know that he was directly behind her chair. She took an audible deep breath, locking eyes with Madame Giry and Meg. She pursed her lips. He would have to speak first.

"Are you ready, Mademoiselle Daae?" he asked evenly. Christine nodded before realizing he wouldn't be able to see that because of her chair. She would have to speak.

"Oui," she finally whispered, preparing to stand. The Phantom walked forward and pulled her chair out for her as she rose. She nodded to him with thanks as he pushed it back in.

"Your cloak and gloves are waiting by the door," he said quietly. Christine saw them and walked over, putting on the white fur cloak and leather gloves. Perfect fits.

"Where will we be walking?" she asked, mimicking his even tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he replied:

"The roof."

Christine turned to face him directly for the first time that afternoon. "Monsieur?"

"You heard me, Miss Daae." Christine opened her mouth to speak again, but the Phantom turned and began walking off, not waiting for her. Vexed, Christine hurried after him. They walked for a while before reaching a spiral staircase. Christine hesitated. The Phantom turned to face her.

"I won't let you fall," he said cryptically. Christine nodded slowly, avoiding his eyes, before beckoning for him to go on. Without turning back, he ascended the stairs. Christine followed silently, picking her dress up so that she wouldn't trip.

After a long and silent minute of silence only disturbed by the sound of snow falling or the occasional bird flying by, chirping cheerfully. The sounds of normalcy and the happiness of the birds was an odd contrast to the atmosphere that had settled between Christine and the mystical figure before her. She studied him from the slightly profile angle the twisted stairs allotted her.

He would be quite handsome, she noted, if not for his strange deformity. The unmasked side of his face, framed by the fedora, was sculpted and sharp. He was muscular yet still lean, although she couldn't truly tell because of his black cloak . . . The same one that had cradled her weak body the week before? She shuddered, pushing away the haunting memory.

"Are we nearly there?" The childish question burst from her lips before she had the chance to remember who she was talking to. The Phantom turned to face her, a smirk on his face.

"Yes," he said simply before turning around and continuing up the staircase.

He had not been lying. Within a minute of her ridiculous little outburst, the Phantom opened a door, exposing the bright view of the Opera House's roof.

Christine could not help but gasp with delight as she ran ahead of the Phantom to jump in the six inches of snow. She laughed as she threw the snow up in the air, momentarily forgetting where she was and who she was with.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Christine sat contentedly in the front row of the theater, playing with the soft petals of a rose she had found on her bed after the Phantom had dropped her off and bade her a good night. She did not bother trying to figure out how he had managed to find a rose for her in the middle of winter, she had long since given up attempting to figure out the Phantom's mysterious ways.<p>

Something about him recently seemed . . . Off. Different. She couldn't quite explain it. There was less malice in his voice when he spoke to his servants and more gentleness when he spoke to her. She smiled. Sometimes, he almost seemed . . . Kind. It was a word which she previously had never used to describe him but now was plausible. In saving her, an unspoken truce had formed between them. She did not mind this new dynamic they had. If she would be his prisoner forever, she might as well find some measure of happiness.

Setting the rose down, Christine hummed to herself as she reached down to her bag and pulled out a collection of sheet music the Phantom had left in her room two nights before. She was rather fond of it, it had many lovely songs in it that she hadn't heard before. She assumed the Phantom had written them himself. Some of the melodies were hauntingly similar to the ones that had drawn her to his lair . . .

Shaking her head, she opened the collection, deciding to sing the first song she flipped to. Glancing down, she smiled. This wasn't from the Phantom's compositions. It was a selection from Hannibal, an opera her father had taken her to long ago. She had mentioned it to Meg once . . . How could the Phantom have known?

She climbed onto the stage easily and straightened out her dress. She closed her eyes and imagined an adoring audience cheering her name.

_"With feasting and dancing and song_

_Tonight in celebration_

_We greet the victorious throng_

_Returned to bring salvation_

_The trumpet of carthage resound_

_Hear, Romans, now and tremble_

_Hark to our step on ground_

_Hear the drums!_

_Hannibal comes!"_

_"Sad to return_

_To find the land we love . . ."_

Christine turned with a start, surprised to see the Phantom singing behind her. He ceased when he noticed she had turned and stared at her with a critical eye.

"Your tone is off," he noted. Christine's eyebrows jumped up in surprise.

"Monsieur?"

"Disgraceful, in fact," the Phantom continued. "You have a good range, but you sing too much from your throat. If you keep singing in that amateur style, your voice will disappear and you will sound like a toad."

"Monsieur!" Christine now felt mildly insulted.

"You breathe from your throat as well. You must learn to breathe from your diaphragm. When you breathe, your shoulders must not ri-"

"Monsieur!" He stopped his critique, raising an eyebrow. "I . . . did not know that you were such an expert in this area." He gave her a wry smile.

"It is hard for one to not become an expert in this field when he lives in an Opera House." Christine blushed.

"Of course, monsieur." She then straightened up. "However, I must say that I do not deserve all of your criticism. You see, I have not been to a lesson a day in my life."

"I could tell," the Phantom replied scathingly. An unsaid question filled the air between them.

Christine finally voiced what they both were considering. "Sir . . .could you teach me?" The Phantom studied her for a long moment, surprised.

"The Phantom is yours to do with as you please," he relented, bowing his head. "But Christine must know that he is very strict. She must arrive on time, every time."

"What time?" Christine questioned.

"Six," he replied easily. He then gave her a dry smile. "You should know the way down, am I correct?" Christine blushed.

"Yes, m'sieur."

"Very well then. Your lessons will begin tomorrow evening. Do not be late." He began to walk off, but Christine suddenly thought of something. After a short mental debate with sensibility over the consequences of the question in her mind, she finally called out:

"Sir? Can I know your name?" The Phantom stopped in his tracks and stood still for a long moment before turning around slowly.

"Erik," he replied before walking off.

_Erik . . ._


End file.
